A Ship is a Boat, John
by gypsy rosalie
Summary: In which Sherlock discovers fanfiction and analyses it to death, John's curiosity gets the better of him, Lestrade doesn't understand what the term 'fangirls' means and the skull becomes the primary audience for Sherlock's dramatic readings.


**I know it's been done to death in every fandom, but this is one of those 'what entails when characters discover people write fanfiction about them' fics. Clichéd, I know, but I wanted to put my own spin on it. And just so I don't get sued, I don't own anything, and my opinions aren't necessarily the same as Sherlock's in this story.**

* * *

'A ship is a boat…a vessel for transporting goods by sea…why would anyone be so imbecilic as to describe a person as an inanimate nautical vessel?'

John could hear Sherlock's irritated muttering as soon as he turned his key in the lock and pushed open the door to their flat. The consulting detective was hunched over his computer screen, grumbling on and on like the running commentary on a cricket match, except his voice climbed in tone and pitch every so often and then dropped again. This couldn't exactly be called an extraordinary occurrence- Sherlock Holmes was always engrossed in some elusive case or other, busy working his way through some strange new research, and Doctor Watson had come home to far worse things than muttering since he'd started living here, including violent explosions and frighteningly strange experiments involving severed body parts. So he ignored it, walking through to the kitchen without so much as a word to his flatmate.

'_Preposterous_,' John heard him hiss from the other room. He rolled his eyes. Sherlock was probably contesting something Lestrade had sent him, pointing out every single flaw in what would seem to any normal person as a reasonable deduction based on the available evidence and coming to a conclusion nobody else could possibly have thought of.

John tutted quietly to himself and filled up the kettle.

'Two people in fact,' the muttering went on, 'two people being compared to a seafaring vessel…it's just not _logical_…'

John heaped instant coffee into two mugs.

'Ordinary people and their nonsensical, whimsical ramblings…such extraneous rubbish… 'ships' indeed…'

'Drug smuggling case is it?' John plonked the cups down on the few inches of space on their coffee table and attempted to look over his friend's shoulder at the computer screen.

Sherlock shot him one of those obnoxious I-know-better-than-you-and-you-look-like-a-moron-to-me-because-I'm-Sherlock-Holmes looks.

'No-one with even the slightest shred of intellect would deduce that.'

If John didn't know Sherlock's definition of 'having intellect' he would have been offended. As it was, he merely shrugged and ignored the remark, settling on the sofa with his coffee and wondering how long he'd be able to drink it in peace before Sherlock inevitably interrupted him.

'A ship is a _vessel_, John.'

Doctor Watson raised one eyebrow. 'I know,' he said, for want of a better reply. He waited for Sherlock to elaborate, but the consulting detective had gone back into his mind palace, murmuring to himself again about people and boats and a host of various insulting names that could be applied to ordinary, non-Sherlock folk.

'So…are you going to tell me what's going on?'

Sherlock didn't respond.

'Oh, all right then, don't tell me,' John murmured, turning his attention back to his coffee.

'_John-_lock,' the detective said out of the blue.

John turned around abruptly, shooting Sherlock a strange look. 'What?'

'Honestly, _Johnlock_- a predictable combination of the two names, they're coining new words in a pathetic attempt to sound clever…'

'Sherlock, what _are_ you on about?'

'Oh, this _fanfiction_ thing,' Sherlock said disdainfully.

This didn't clear up much for John.

'What, those internet stories the kids write about shows and…things?' He couldn't see why this would be of any interest to Sherlock, unless he'd decided to take on some strange murder-by-fanfiction case.

'Yes. Mrs Hudson suggested I read it. Apparently she is an 'avid fangirl,' or so she tells me.'

John raised his eyebrows. 'But you _never_ do things just because someone suggests them! How many times have I suggested you google the solar system and look up the-'

'This fanfiction is about _us_, John.'

John nearly did a spit-take. 'What?'

Sherlock finally turned around, staring John in the face. 'New cases don't seem to be the only thing your blog's attracted. We are now what they call an OTP, or, for some inexplicable reason, a _ship,'_ he spat the last word to indicate his disdain for the term.

John was still rooted to the spot, shellshocked. 'You mean,' he began, trying to wrap his head around the notion, 'that people have actually started to write stories- about us…as a _couple?'_

'Apparently we are everybody's favourite ship-why a _ship? _A ship is a _boat_…there is no logical reason why they would call us a ship- no logical connection between human beings and boats…'

John still couldn't quite swallow the idea. 'We…are a ship?'

'Exactly. Preposterous. Ships have nothing to do with human beings in this context, and Johnlock, _Johnlock_, not content with combining us they have to combine our _names _as well…do they have nothing productive to do with their time?'

'Johnlock?' John's shock gave way for a partially hysterical giggle, and he shifted Sherlock to one side to have a look at the computer screen.

What he saw startled him so much he staggered back a little. When he'd first been told that fanfiction about him and Sherlock existed, he'd expected a handful- there'd have to be a fair few for Sherlock and John to be recognised as an OTP- but the number of stories on the list was overwhelming.

_22,972 stories found_, he read in disbelief. Twenty two thousand stories about himself and Sherlock! This was insane.

His eyes quickly scanned the rest of the page, and he coloured at some of the summaries he read. Who _thought up _these things?

He was about to ask this last thought aloud, but Sherlock, having clicked on one of the stories and speed-read about half of it already, beat him to the punch.

'_He gazed into the man's icy blue eyes, feeling his heart pounding in his chest,'_ Sherlock read aloud with disdainful scorn, '_and he was overwhelmed with his deep love for John Watson_…what drivel. Childish, emotional, purile drivel. I am not overwhelmed with anything. I am never overwhelmed. All this emotion- and why is there a description of the _sunset_? Is it merely to waste precious time and space?'

This was all just too weird for John. He got up, retrieved his coffee and made to escape to his room.

'This one's about you, me and _the woman_- how could they possibly know about her? Who are these people? And why _ship_?' Sherlock repeated for the umpteenth time.

'Short for relationship?' John had known it all along, but hadn't had a proper chance to get a word in edgeways, let along suggest this to the detective.

Sherlock gave him the furious look he reserved for anyone who tried to correct him or prove him wrong, and John felt this was probably a good time to leave the room.

* * *

He didn't emerge from his bedroom for another few hours, except to sneak out to the kitchen, slip some food from the fridge and slither back again. Sherlock was constantly shouting things out to him, but John had made up his mind to ignore him, ignore this whole fanfiction business and hope his friend would get bored with it soon.

'John, listen to this!' came a yell from the other room. He ignored it.

His phone bleeped. John took it out apprehensively.

_-'Ship' is a verb now. Some people 'ship' me with you. Some people 'ship' me with Molly Hooper, the Woman or Moriarty. There are what is known as 'shipping wars.' Have you ever heard anything so preposterous?  
__SH_

John rolled his eyes and typed a text back.

-_I don't care._

He opened one of his old medical books and tried to immerse himself in it and take his mind completely off the fanfiction incident, but his phone chirped once again, indicating Sherlock had no intention of letting him do so.

_-You have a penchant for acting helpless and getting yourself in trouble in these stories. I inevitably end up saving you. You can work out how those situations end.  
__SH_

The texts continued for over an hour, and John eventually realised if he wanted to make them stop, he would either have to throw the phone out of the upstairs window or go and confront Sherlock. He sighed, getting up and trudging back out.

At once Sherlock began talking to him as though he'd never left the room. 'M-rated entries are not displayed by default,' he was saying now, and John could have sworn his eyes had almost gone square from all the hours he'd been sat staring at the screen. '_Not displayed by default_ clearly means the authors have something to hide, but they still wanted their work published…incredibly simple to deduce why that is.'

John could wholeheartedly agree- he had a very good idea of why that was and was sincerely hoping Sherlock wouldn't feel like pursuing that train of thought any further.

He opened his mouth to say something, but his gaze was directed to the computer, and Watson could see that Sherlock had indeed pursued the train of thought and clicked on the link to the M-rated entries.

He blanched at the first summary.

_Sherlock and John get carried away while on a case. Rated M for a reason._

He winced as he saw Sherlock's cursor sliding towards the link, and acted before he had time to think. He reached over and slammed the computer shut.

'Okay, I think that's enough of that for now,' John said with an uncomfortable laugh, trying not to look at the seething glare Sherlock was sending his way.

'It's eleven-thirty, Sherlock, er, I think you need to be well-rested…' he began pathetically. The glare became colder.

'Lestrade could ring tomorrow with a new murder case for you!' John tried desperately.

Sherlock seemed to ponder this, and then the glare slowly melted away. 'I suppose,' he conceded, and without another word he stood up and swept out the room.

* * *

John sat on the end of his bed, fully dressed and staring at his closed door. It wasn't that he couldn't sleep- his eyes were protesting at staying open, in fact- John was deliberately keeping himself awake. The minutes ticked by, and he glanced at his watch in a pointless attempt to hurry them up. Would Sherlock be asleep by now?

He checked his watch again. Three a.m. Should be. John hopped off his bed and tiptoed out into the darkened flat. He wasn't curious, no, not at all. That wasn't why he was doing this, and he most certainly was _not_ snooping the M-rated fic. He was just…just _checking_ it, to see if it was appropriate for his roommate to read. He was a doctor- it was his civil duty to look after his friend and ensure he didn't damage his mental health. And reading inappropriate stories someone had posted on the internet about yourself sounded pretty mental-health damaging to him.

Yes. That's what he'd say if he got caught.

He stepped into the living room, feeling his way through the shadows in the general direction of Sherlock's computer.

'Evening, John.'

'Gah!' John all but leapt ten feet in the air, startled.

Sherlock flicked on the lamp.

'Judging by your comical reaction and the ridiculous way you were trying to walk, I take it you were attempting to do something behind my back- a futile effort, John, nothing can go on in this flat without me knowing about it. Based on the way your eyes keep flickering to that corner of the room,' he indicated, 'you were either looking for the lamp or my computer- most likely my computer, as going by our last conversation and the way you pretended in vain not to be interested, not to mention the way you were so desperate for me to stop reading and go to bed, one doesn't have to be me to deduce that you were sneaking out to read the M-rated fic.'

Sherlock folded his hands in his lap, wearing his smug _go on, prove me wrong_ face.

'N-how-' John gave up on trying to say anything. Sherlock looked even smugger.

'Dull, ordinary people are so predictable. Always let their childish curiosities get the better of them.'

'Well what's _your_ excuse, then?' John retorted.

'I don't need an excuse,' Sherlock said. 'I'm reading the M-rated fic.' And with that he turned around, flipped open his computer and began scrutinising the screen.

John stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room, unsure if he should walk out with dignity and go back to bed or just admit he _was_ curious and ask Sherlock if he could have a look. He stood there a while longer, glancing around the room and feigning interest in the wallpaper, the fireplace, the skull, anything else.

'You're debating whether to snoop,' Sherlock said without looking at him.

'No I'm not,' John protested weakly.

'Of course you were. It was obvious from your stance.'

John didn't bother to ask how Sherlock knew how he was standing without actually having seen him, but it was too late at night to put up with more deduction-slash-showing-off.

'Oh, for goodness' _sake_, just come and read it,' Sherlock snapped after another pause. 'We both know you're desperate to.'

John turned the colour of a beetroot, but came towards the computer anyway. Sherlock was muttering again, enjoying himself- far too much, John decided- correcting the errors in the fic and pointing out which parts of it were tragically wrong and at odds with his character.

John was unable to do anything more than blush an array of different shades of red and bite his lip as he surveyed the story in embarrassed awe.

'No realism,' Sherlock said, though whether to himself or his companion Watson wasn't sure. 'Haven't you finished this page _yet_? I want to scroll on.'

But John was beyond being impressed by Sherlock's ability to speed-read. 'It-they-wrote-they wrote that we…' he stuttered, unable to verbalise the details of what he had just read.

'Clichéd,' Sherlock concluded, 'I wouldn't be seen dead acting so predictable and…_sentimental._ Very OOC.'

'Well, not everyone thinks the way you do- in fact, no-one thinks the way- hang on!' Something had just occurred to John. 'Did you just say O-O-C?'

'It means Out-of-Character, John, as anyone with intellect could have deduced based on the rest of my remark alone.'

'Yes, but-' John was partially amused and very astounded indeed, 'you're using _fanfiction terminology_ now? Are you being _influenced_ by the fanfiction?'

'Don't be ridiculous, John. Of course not.' He opened up another window and read the summary aloud. '_What ensues when Lestrade forgets to lock his office._ It doesn't take much in the way of deduction to know exactly what'll occur in this story.'

'Now we've seen what the M-rated ones are like, maybe we should call it a night…' John was getting uncomfortable again, but Sherlock showed no intention of stopping reading.

'Unrealistic,' he was scoffing now, 'although the depiction of Anderson is quite accurate- listen to this…'

John tutted. 'Nope, I've had enough. I'm going back to bed.'

'I'll read it to the skull, then,' Sherlock said loudly, crossing the room in a swift motion and snatching up the cranium from the mantelpiece.

John could still hear his overly dramatic mocking-voice echoing through the flat, reading out parts of the fics to the skull, as he retreated to his bedroom, locked the door and buried his head under the pillow.

* * *

John wandered into the kitchen around nine the next morning, squinting sleepily and running a hand through his hair. The room was deserted, last night's washing up still in the sink where Sherlock hadn't been bothered to do it, this morning's breakfast non-existent on account of Sherlock not being bothered to make it. Doctor Watson sighed and started up the kettle.

'Sherlock?' he called. No response. He called again, louder.

'NC-17 is a higher rating than M, you know,' came the voice of the consulting detective. 'Not much difference in quality, though, they're still chock-full of _sentiment_.'

John, frowning, traipsed through into the living room, where to his…well, he wasn't sure if it _was_ astonishment- nothing Sherlock did could totally shock him any more…his flatmate was still hunched in front of the computer, idly flicking through web page after web page. The skull sat in a place of honour beside him, resting on top of a large stack of freshly-written notes.

'Have you been up all night reading fanfiction?'

'I'm researching it.'

John thought it probably better not to ask what purpose that would serve. It was still too early in the morning for a Sherlock-lecture.

Apparently, though, his friend didn't actually need a response to start jabbering away about the observations he'd made, most of his analysis making little sense to John.

And, if he was honest, making him more annoyed by the minute.

When Sherlock started going on about the difference between 'canon' and 'fanon', pausing every second word to highlight the fact that he was not becoming addicted to this stuff but was merely investigating it for a study on human nature and the sorts of things ordinary people took up their time with, John decided once and for all that he'd had enough. He told Sherlock this, rather loudly, not that the detective was listening, and stomped off to work.

* * *

John had never been so relieved to leave the flat and go to the surgery. Here, at least, he had an important and time-consuming job to do. Of course, it was only a temporary job, but seeing to patients was the perfect escape from anything Sherlock-related, anything to do with ships, anything, mercifully, to do with fanfiction, and hopefully by the time he left, the world of fangirls and OTPs would have become boring to Sherlock and he'd have moved on.

He immersed himself in his job, grateful for the distractions.

'I think the mole is unlikely to be malignant, Mrs Boswell,' he told his latest patient, 'almost certainly not a melanoma, but just to be on the safe side, I'm going to refer you to a skin-care specialist, to make sure…' he crossed over to the computer as he spoke to print out his referral, when the sound of his phone bleeping stopped him short.

John shot an apologetic look at the woman. 'Sorry, d'you mind if I just get that? Could be important…'

He hoped it was important. More likely than not, though, it was going to be Sherlock. He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the phone that had once been his sister Harry's, and checking his messages.

_-The skull and I are what is known as a 'crackship.' These people have no sense of reality.  
__SH_

Half of John wanted to hurl the phone across the room, and the other half felt like throwing back his head and roaring with laughter at the idea of a Sherlock/skull love story. He chose not to act on either impulse for fear of frightening his patient and ending up blacklisted.

* * *

Even a new case didn't take Sherlock's mind off the fanfiction matter.

'If the amateurs would like to take a look?' Donovan and Anderson stepped out from under the police tape, and before John had even had time to blink Sherlock had crossed it and begun vigorously examining the first of the three bodies. John, sighing, ducked under the tape and went through the motions, taking each of the victims' pulses and confirming to a room of people who already knew that they were indeed dead, while Sherlock rocketed around the corpses, spending less than seven seconds at each one but undoubtedly discovering hundreds of little titbits of information.

Doctor Watson stood back, leaving him to it, exchanging glances with Lestrade as the consulting detective launched into an explanation that not even Scotland Yard's top investigators could have come up with.

'It's embarrassing,' Lestrade muttered to John, 'when he starts going on like that, pointing out things that are _'childishly obvious' _ he makes me look like I'm totally incompetent!'

'According to some fangirls, you are,' said Sherlock from several metres away.

Lestrade blinked. '_What_ girls?'

John just groaned into his hands.

'According to the fangirls, you are so incompetent, in fact, that you are constantly leaving your office unlocked, allowing John and I to spend NC-17 rated evenings in there,' Sherlock said nonchalantly, taking out one of the victims' wallets, removing a card from it and shouting 'aha! I knew it!'

Lestrade looked completely bamboozled. 'N-C-what? _What_ about my office?'

'It's fanon,' said Sherlock, as if this explained everything.

Lestrade turned to John, who merely cringed. 'What's he on about?'

'Trust me,' John said, feeling his face burning with embarrassment, 'you don't want to know.'

* * *

When John returned to 221B Baker Street that evening, it was not the sound of clattering, explosions, a violin or muttering that greeted him, but the frantic click-clicking noise of computer keys. He dumped his things on the stairwell and wandered into the living room, wondering just what Sherlock was up to now.

The consulting detective didn't bother to look up from his work or acknowledge John's presence. He merely kept on typing, completely absorbed in his task.

'Updating the blog, are we?' John asked casually, coming up behind him. ' Analysing Types of Tobacco Ash Part Two, is it?' He stood on his toes, leaning over his flatmate's shoulder to see what he was typing.

'_There was once a man named Sherlock Holmes,'_ John read aloud, _'who was born with a vastly superior intellect and was unbelievably brilliant. He was a consulting detective who solved all the un-boring cases and didn't bother with useless things like sentiment. He…_are you writing a fanfiction?!'

'Just trying to set the record straight,' Sherlock said, and went on typing.

John was flabbergasted. 'But you're writing about yourself- you can't write _fanfiction_ about _yourself!_'

'Why ever not?' Sherlock retorted. 'If some silly, sentimental, hormone-driven children think they have license to write about me, then surely I, knowing myself better than anyone- a _vastly_ more informed source, John-can write a far more accurate and much better story.'

John snorted.

'Is something funny?'

'Oh no, nothing…except for the fact that that has got to be the worst thing I've ever read!'

Sherlock's fingers ceased to tap against the keys and there was a moment of dangerous silence.

'Sherlock, it's rubbish! You can't write for toffee!'

The detective turned round, raising both his eyebrows. 'It's _accurate, _it's _factual…'_

'But if you want people to _read_ it, Sherlock, you can't just write it like a list. You need description- something to keep people interested.'

'Including descriptions of _sunsets _and _emotions_,' Sherlock said scornfully, 'would trivialise it. I only write about facts and noteworthy deductions. And I am never out of character in my own story.'

'Yeah- but that defeats the whole purpose! It's fan-_fiction_, emphasis on _fiction_, Sherlock!' John threw up his hands and shook his head. 'And let's face it, you can't write fiction .'

'If I ever need to do any research on how to write fiction,' Sherlock said, turning back to his computer and beginning to tap at the keys once more, 'I'll just look over your emails to your girlfriends.'

John's jaw dropped. 'Are you implying I lie to my girlfriends?'

'I never imply, John. _I'm sorry, baby, I can't possibly make it tonight, the traffic is hell and I can't get off work for another four hours,'_ he mimicked in a squeaky imitation of John's voice. 'You just didn't want to go. That was the night we apprehended that jewel thief.'

'Well what was I supposed to say?' John said through his teeth. 'I have to cancel our date because Sherlock Holmes is bored and wants me to go off chasing criminals with him?!' He looked down crossly at Sherlock, but his friend had lost interest and was no longer listening.

John craned his neck and read the latest few sentences of Sherlock's 'fanfiction'.

'_His comrade John Watson was ignorant and no good at spotting even the simplest of clues…_you can't write that about me!'


End file.
